Aim for My Heart
by Everthought
Summary: "Do you remember the day we met?" ... "Vaguely," Porthos grinned, "Didn't you take Aramis hostage, steal D'Artagnan's sword, kiss Athos, and throw yourself under a horse?" ...The Inseparables are charged with bringing the slave-lord Khan to justice, but a problem presents itself in the form of Ara, a surgeon's daughter with a dark past, an eye for Athos, and an indomitable spirit.
1. Chapter 1

" _Are you alright, Madame?"_

Ara's ears are ringing, and she feels lost, floating, almost. The only solid thing in the world is the pistol clutched behind her back. It takes her a second to focus on the man in front of her, his lips moving, forming unintelligible words, a slight crease in his brow as he looks at her with earnest brown eyes, his feathered hat doffed to her…

She swings her head and looks around, takes in the bodies everywhere. Behind him, the man's comrades-there are four men in all- walk through the carnage, surveying the scene. The youngest one pulls his sword out of a fallen man's gut and studies it; his friend looks him over for injuries, then quietly sheathes his own sword. The biggest man is knelt, crossing himself in prayer over the body of a girl.

Ara sees the blonde hair, the unlaced corset, and bile rises in her throat, and then everything speeds up again. She's no longer floating, she's grounded, and she whirls wildly back to the man in front of her, the Spanish-looking one, and she hears him repeat- " _Are you alright, Madame?"_ \- she steels herself, meets his eyes, and then raises the pistol she's been holding behind her back, and points it straight at his chest.

"Aramis!" A shout sounds from behind him as one of his friends sees his predicament, and she nearly drops the pistol right then. Aramis simply stares back at her, shocked, apparently, that she would pull a pistol on her rescuer, and then slowly raises his gloved hands, " _Madame_ -"

"Turn around," she orders, gritting her teeth over her fear, the pistol still trained on him.

He complies, quietly turning around to face the rest of his men, hands still held in surrender, and she closes in behind him, pressing the barrel of the pistol to the side of his head. She's shaking now, and she knows he can feel it, but she holds the gun steady, "Don't move, or I'll shoot him!"

They've all gathered, now, his three friends, hands on the hilts of their swords, studying this new development with wariness.

The big one veritably growls as he meets her eyes, and she shudders at the unadulterated rage in his gaze, before the one in the middle speaks, the young one.

"Madame, I'm sure we can work this out," he removes his hand from his sword hilt, and takes a single step forward, hands raised in placation, "let's just talk about this-"

But her eyes are drawn to the last man, the one on the end. He's of medium build, brown hair, unremarkable, almost, except for the unmistakable air of authority with which he holds himself- he's the leader, she realizes. And then he nods, in her direction, a brief, subtle nod, startlingly blue eyes trained on her, and before she can wonder what it means, the man she's holding hostage, Aramis, throws an elbow back, catching her in the stomach, while simultaneously grabbing her wrist, angling the pistol away from himself.

They have called her bluff; she was never going to shoot him...

She doubles over in pain and surprise, and he easily twists the gun out of her grip, side-stepping and sending her stumbling forward, right into the young one. She doesn't waste time acclimating to the loss of her single advantage, and instead lunges at the young one in front of her-

The blue-eyed leader sees her objective a split-second before her victim, and growls a warning, "D'Artagnan-" but she's already grabbed onto the hilt of his sword, and in one fluid tug, she unsheathes it, just as the poor man's hand goes to his hip, to his empty sword-belt.

For a second the young one, D'Artagnan, gapes at her, and then, again, everything speeds up. Instantaneously, every single weapon is drawn. The leader is immediately in front of her, pushing the young one she's just disarmed behind him, but it is the big man that charges her.

Ara doesn't know the first thing about sword-fighting, but she knows immediately that there is no way she can meet the force of his incoming blow, so as he runs at her she braces herself, and then spins out of his path; he's quicker than she's given him credit for, though, and he corrects for her motion immediately, already bringing his sword up to finish her, and she's bracing herself again, this time to meet his blow, futile as it may be, but as the blade arces through its zenith, there's a clang, and then the clash and scrape of steel on steel, and the big man is thrown off his course.

It's the blue-eyed leader who's spared her, his blade crossed under his comrade's. He's looking hard at her, but his quiet order is for the ears of his friends as he flips his wrist, rolling the big man's blade off his: "I'll handle this, Porthos. Aramis, go after Khan, we'll catch up with you."

It's these words that make her blood run cold- if they go after him…

She yells, and with every last vestige of her strength, she swings the stolen sword at him. He's not expecting her swing, but he meets it in a flash of steel, and parries it away. He's quicker, far more skilled than her, and she knows as she swings again that she's already lost the fight. Indeed, in a fluid maneuver, he parries, twists his right hand, and easily disarms her, sending the sword spinning into the air towards him. He catches it in his left, and tosses it behind him to the young D'Artagnan who eagerly reclaims it.

The point of the leader's blade is at her throat now, and she feels his critical gaze on her as she stands there, gulping air, empty hands stinging, but she's only got eyes for the two men who've already mounted their horses.

The feeling of dread sinks into her stomach as she watches the Spanish-looking one, Aramis, her former hostage, spur his horse and prepare to gallop away after Khan, and she knows she cannot let this happen if it's the last thing she does.

In a mad moment of desperation, she does the only thing that comes to mind, and without a second thought, launches herself into the path of the horse.

A lot of things happen at the same time.

D'Artagnan chokes out a strangled " _Good God_ -!" mouth agape, while the leader lunges for her, latching onto her wrist. Porthos reins his mount back just in time, but Aramis is too late, and as she throws herself at the oncoming hooves of his horse, he yanks on the reins; the steed startles, bucks wildly, and Aramis is thrown off its back with a silent cry followed by a thud. She gasps, her knees smarting from where she's scraped them on her landing. The hand on her wrist tightens, hauling her roughly back, away from the trampling hooves, but her eyes are fixated on the heap of a body that she has created. _God_ , has she killed him?

"ARAMIS!" Porthos shouts, throwing himself off his own steed to tend to his fallen friend; D'Artagnan is instantly at the riderless horse's side, hand at the bridle as he tries to calm the startled animal, "Are you _mad_?" He throws over his shoulder at her, tugging on the bridle.

She must be, she thinks, unable to look away; she must be mad, she must be positively insane…

The leader drags her forcibly to her feet by her wrist, tugging her to face him, and she finally does, tearing her gaze away from the body on the floor, the big man kneeling over it, the young man struggling with the horse... He's looking at her, gaping at her, absolutely speechless. His face is white in astonishment, lips parted, breathless, and his eyes, those startling blue eyes, pin her with wordless bewilderment. He's staring at her like she's mental, like she's lost her mind, or like she's grown another head.

Ara feels like a cornered animal; she's sure she looks it, too, but she's all out of dignity, all out of self-respect, and she just needs to stall these men, just for enough time, just so Khan can get away, otherwise...

She's breathing hard, but hardly breathing right now, she's running on nothing but pure adrenaline and desperation, running with the first insane thought that comes to her mind because that's all she can do, and that's why, as she stares at his dumfounded expression, his brilliant blue eyes, she flings herself into his chest, and crushes his parted lips to hers.

She feels his eyebrows fly up in shock, his mouth unresponsive, but his right hand, the one not gripping her wrist, automatically comes up around her waist to steady her, and she takes the opening.

She lunges for the hilt of his sword, left unguarded by his right hand, but he anticipates it, and grabs her other wrist, pulling her off him two-handedly.

She struggles against his hands, cursing inwardly, and with a deft knee to the groin, she manages to momentarily destabilize him enough to wrench her right hand free.

Without hesitation, she cocks and swings it into a fist, driving it right into the side of his face.

He grunts at the impact, the blow snapping his head to the side a bit, and she gasps at the pain erupting in her knuckles.

"Bleedin' Hell!" Porthos exclaims from a distance.

The leader calmly recaptures her arm, and transfers both of her wrists to his right hand, grasping them much tighter this time. With his left hand, he rubs the spot on his jaw; it's definitely going to bruise, she realizes. He turns his head to the side, and spits out blood, and when he turns to face her again, unreadable blue eyes meeting hers, Ara flinches, sure he is going to strike her in retaliation.

Instead he turns back to his men.

D'artagnan has settled the horse, and the leader holds his free hand out to him: "Rope."

So she's to be their prisoner. The panic that erupts in her stomach settles a bit, as she realizes she's done all that she can. With any luck, she has stalled them for long enough and Khan has gotten away.

Wordlessly, D'artagnan passes his leader a coil of rope from the saddlebags.

He takes it and loops a length of rope around her trapped wrists, knots it, and calls over his shoulder- "Aramis?"

Ara looks behind him, and sees the Spaniard, looking slightly worse for wear, but alive, at least, and on his feet, too, even if he is being propped up by that giant, Porthos...

"I'm alright, Athos," he calls back reassuringly, and just like that, the blue-eyed man methodically binding her wrists has a name.

"Can you ride?" Athos calls back, giving a final tug at the rope. He's bound her hands securely in front of her. He measures a length of extra rope from her wrists, and then cuts it with the knife at his belt, wrapping it around his hand.

"Of course," Aramis affirms.

Athos tosses the remaining coil of rope to D'Artagnan. "Good, because we ride hard until nightfall." He turns, inadvertently tugging on the extra length of rope connected to her bound hands, and she stumbles forward.

She expects him to keep walking, to drag her forwards by the lead, but he stops and turns, steadies her. His hands are gentle on her shoulders, and she can feel his warm breath on the crown of her head. "Easy, there," he says quietly, "We're going to my horse," he gestures, "Can you manage?"

She nods, unsure why he's treating her so well, and he leads her to his horse.

It is decided that she ride with Athos, as Aramis now sports a makeshift sling, Porthos is the largest, and D'Artagnan, a rather sour look on his face, doesn't offer, which she expects has something to do with her disarming him earlier.

Porthos hoists her, surprisingly gently, onto Athos's saddle and secures her wrists to the pommel, "Not going to gag the little hellion?" He asks, but his voice is friendly, and he smiles at her non-threateningly. She feels Athos mount the horse, settling easily onto the saddle behind her. He reaches around her body to grasp the reins, and she bites her lip as the warmth of his body surrounds her. "I didn't see why it was necessary," he tilts his head towards her, "not going to bite, are you?"

Porthos grins conspiratorially as he mounts his own horse, "Or try to kiss him again, eh?"

Ara feels her face heat up, and she drops her head to avoid his eyes.

"Porthos, stop wasting time and leave the poor girl alone," Aramis calls, "We've got a slaver to catch."

Her heart catches in her throat… Hopefully by now Khan is long gone, and hopefully the girls are safe. Hopefully she's stalled long enough because she doesn't think she has it in her to stall any more. She's nearly killed one man, and was nearly killed herself. She looks around at the men; they've spurred their horses into a gallop, D'Artagnan taking the lead, and Porthos bringing up the rear… They might kill her yet.

She tries to sit rigidly in the saddle, careful not to lean back against the firm, armored chest of the man behind her, but eventually the rocking motion of the horse beneath her and the rhythmic sound of the hooves combine with her thorough exhaustion.

She's prisoner, yet again, to unknown men, hungry, bruised, and bound to a saddle, and yet, as she slumps, finally succumbing to the pain, the fatigue, the hunger, a pair of arms tighten around her and before she passes out she feels, oddly… safe.


	2. Chapter 2

They break for camp, as promised, at nightfall.

D'Artagnan, having ridden ahead, is waiting for them as they breach the clearing, his mare flicking its sparse tail restlessly as he pats it down.

Athos nods in his direction, but he's tired, frustrated, and he knows that the rest of them feel the same. He feels the other two follow behind him, dismounting silently.

The slaver's trail, easy enough to find at first, dwindled and was lost somewhere in the woods. They were forced to retrace their own paths and find the trail again- that set them back about two hours; coupled with Khan's head start, it was enough to leave the musketeers stuck playing catch up.

Athos scowls as he swings himself off his mount, patting its nose as it whinnies softly. The movement displaces the girl a bit, and she slumps forward on the horse, still fast asleep.

A crackling noise signals that D'Artagnan has begun the fire, and Athos looks around to see Porthos, unusually grim as he tends to his mount, and Aramis, propped against a tree, one-handedly unrolling bedding.

Athos scrubs at his face, irritated, and accidentally brushes the spot on his jaw where a bruise is already beginning to bloom. He rubs it, impressed, despite himself. Well, this tiny slip of a woman certainly could pack a punch.

He considers her slumped form. Stripped, in sleep, of all her wild bravado, her quick, insane unpredictability, she is somehow...smaller.

Frustrated as he is, and tempting as it is to export all the guilt and blame onto an unfamiliar head, he cannot, in good conscience, cast all blame on her.

He remembers the desperate determination in her eyes as she attempted to single-handedly face off the four of them, the angry bruises on her neck he'd seen as he disarmed her, how he'd very nearly run her through on accident when, heedless to his blade at her throat, or to any sense of self-preservation, really, she'd thrown herself under the hooves of a horse.

No, he realizes, he definitely can't blame her. He knows what it's like to protect someone, to _care_ for someone, who hurts you, and worse...hurts others.

He's intimate with the feeling he saw reflected in her eyes, that wild, guilty, desperation; like you've been miscast in your own life, like you're stuck fighting for the wrong side.

Gently, he unties her from the pommel of his saddle and pulls her off the horse. He marvels when she still doesn't wake. She'd been in and out all day, always silent, sitting stiffly straight in wakefulness, and only in slumber giving into the comfort of reclining against him.

He pauses for a moment when she sleepily curls into him, resting her head on his shoulder, and his memory snatches at the urgent movement of her lips on his. It's wrong, certainly, but she feels... _good_ in his arms, like something precious.

His heart is in his mouth as he carries her to the fire; it's not until he sets her down on a blanket Aramis has laid out, that he swallows it back down.

His eyes trace her profile guiltily, trace the way the firelight catches in her hair and etches the angles of her face in shades of gold...

It's not the fire that unfurls an old warmth in his chest, but-

At best, she a distraction; at worst, dangerous...

D'Artagnan passes around the food; it's just some cheese and bread, and he accepts it quietly.

Athos banishes his thoughts; he's tired, she's vulnerable, and he sees all the fragile pieces of himself in her, but really he's _tired_ , and that's why he's thinking all this nonsense.

He's gotten rather good, over the years, at dismissing his heart, and it's simply a matter of course to force it all away. When he looks up, meeting the inquisitive face of Aramis, his own is impassive.

"I noticed them too," Aramis gestures with his chin to the sleeping form between them, "the bruises."

Athos only nods. The livid bruising on her neck is harsh in the soft light of the fire.

"Poor girl's in over her head," D'Artagnan says, then shoots everyone a glance. Athos knows he's still nursing his pride over losing his sword to her, and doesn't comment, but he can't help but privately disagree.

"Puts up a hell of a fight, though," Porthos observes, between bites.

"On the contrary," Aramis puts in, voicing Athos's thoughts, "I think she accomplished exactly what she wanted to. She risked her life to stall us, to give him a head-start and," he shrugs one-handedly, "I would consider us stalled. For all we know, Khan is long gone."

Next to him, the girl shudders, and without thinking, Athos adjusts the blanket so she is better covered.

"Don't say that," D'Artagnan's voice is hard with conviction. "Today was rough, but we'll find him tomorrow, I know we will."

They all nod, everyone's eyes reflecting varying degrees of exhaustion, and Athos knows that the conversation is officially over.

"Everyone get some rest," he orders, getting to his feet, "I'll take first-"

"I can take first watch, Athos," Aramis offers, eyes amiable as he rises as well.

Athos gives him a cursory look, sweeping over the sling, in particular- "Your arm?"

"Just sprained, and it's my left, anyway."

Athos nods, trusting Aramis at his word, and returns to the ground. He unbuttons his cloak, spreads it by the fire, and then settles, uncovered, on his back; the girl is wrapped in his bedroll.

Just as he's about to close his eyes, a bundle of fabric lands on his chest. He picks up Aramis's blanket, raising an eyebrow at the thrower.

Aramis just grins- "I'll collect it from you when it's time for second watch."

(...)

Aramis finds a tree just outside of the immediate circle of the fire. He unbuckles his sword belt, props it up within easy reach, and then makes himself comfortable, reclining against the tree as he watches the camp.

He's not surprised when the figure curled closest to Athos's prone form hesitantly sits up. She's been awake for at least the end of their conversation; Aramis saw her wide eyes when Athos, in an uncharacteristically soft gesture, absently adjusted her blanket.

She looks around at the snoring men, and then looks up at Aramis, who gives her a half-wave in greeting. She rises quietly and picks her way around their bodies to him, and he briefly considers arming himself - he's seen how quick she can be- but her hostility seems to have abated.

She approaches him with deliberate but reluctant steps, and looks for his okay before settling on the ground next to him.

"Hungry?" Aramis produces another hunk of bread and cheese and tosses them at her before she has a chance to demur.

She catches them deftly, and deposits them in the lap of her skirt, before hesitantly reaching out to him, eyes trained on the sling- "May I?"

He pauses, and then allows her to undo the knot of his sling and take his injured hand in both of hers.

Her fingers are cool and gentle as they probe his swollen wrist.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?"

He shrugs a grin- "Just a couple bruised ribs and a bruised ego; nothing I can't handle," he brushes it off.

She looks upset- "You could've been seriously injured-"

He raises his eyebrows, "If I'm not mistaken, that was the point?"

She bows her head, and then leans back on the tree, still gently cradling his wrist. The marks on her neck are ugly, even in the near-darkness.

"Why do you protect him?" Aramis presses.

"I am...so sorry. I couldn't- I didn't mean for anyone else…" Her voice breaks, and then trails off.

It's silent for a few moments, and then he takes pity on her. He reaches over with his right hand to take one of hers, flips it, and then draws it to his lips for a quick, gallant peck- "I don't believe we've properly met? My name is Aramis."

She rolls her eyes- they're glistening a bit, with tears- but she smiles, and gives his hand a little shake in return: "Ara."

He offers her refuge in the mundane: "Beautiful name."

She relaxes."It's a city in India."

"You speak Hindustani, then? _Namaste_."

She smiles a bit, approving, before dipping her head in turn- " _Namaste_. I don't speak much more, I'm afraid."

Then, "I could make you a better splint, if you want," she offers. "My dad was a surgeon, and my brother is too; I could wrap your wrist with something - you've definitely at least partially torn a ligament- it would be less bulky than your sling?"

He acquiesces, and Ara finds a fallen stick that's just sturdy enough to serve. The rest of the watch is spent companionably; Ara shaves the stick down to smoothness, and then gently wraps and splints his wrist.

Eventually Athos wakes on his own to relieve Aramis at watch, silently approaching the pair and holding Aramis's blanket out to him.

Aramis takes his cue to withdraw, but as he grabs his sword-belt, he hesitates, and then bends so that he is eye-level with her.

The jeweled gold crucifix dangles out of the open neck of his shirt and he grasps it, showing it to her- "I am no stranger to forbidden love, Ara. I do not judge you."

He ignores her wide eyes, pivoting back towards the bedrolls without a second look.

X

Ara stares at Aramis's retreating back. His reassurance - and the implication it contained, however well-intentioned- makes her feel sick. "It's not like that," she murmurs, watching him settle in the vacated space by the dying fire.

"Oh?" The prompt is gentle but the voice is dry.

She gives a start, having forgotten Athos's silent presence beside her.

"Then why _do_ you protect him?" He's speaking in little more than a whisper, but it is fierce and demanding.

He's looking at her in that _way_ of his, and even in the weak light of a waxing crescent moon, with the all the angles of his face hollowed and rounded out in swooping shadows, this stranger has some undefinable hold on her, and the words are tumbling out before she can check them-

" _It's not him I protect."_


	3. Chapter 3

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 _What?_

Athos keeps his face blank, leans against the recently vacated tree, and raises an eyebrow.

When that doesn't invite further confidence, he doesn't push it.

He wants to ask _then who?_ There is a story here he's not privy to, and he wants answers. He hates charging blindly into the fray. But he can't help feeling that he has no right to ask, that he has to earn her trust. After all, what reason does she have to entrust him with her secrets?

It's...frustrating.

He ignores her in favor of scanning the woods stoically, keeping his expression closed.

It's an inconvenient time to notice that she smells nice. Of course he could smell her when they were riding, but it's an inconvenient (if not unpleasant) revisitation on his senses.

He wants to say something. Order her to go back to sleep, tell her to leave him, tell her she can trust him, but every unformed idea dies on his tongue as he looks back at her. She's exhausted in that slow, burning way that being out of immediate danger, but not _quite_ out of the woods, takes a toll on one's energy reserves.

His eyes are drawn, once again, to the bruises on her neck, then down to the rope burns on her wrists and he feels immeasurably guilty. He gestures to her wrists- "I did that?" he finally asks, but it's more of a statement; the words roll like lead off his tongue. "Forgive me, that was no way to treat a lady."

He dips his head to meet her eyes earnestly, and is surprised when she huffs out a tired half-laugh: "Well I'm hardly a lady."

A corner of his lip tugs upwards almost of its own accord.

Everything about her is endlessly frustrating, endlessly inconvenient to the carefully cultivated walls he's put up around himself.

Anne... _Milady_...had windows, she had loopholes, little chinks in the walls that she would force her way through to come and claw and tear at him.

This girl seems to walk right on top of the parapets, a precarious balancing act, walking doggedly on, _toe-heel-toe-heel,_ skinny arms aloft… and Athos wants to rush out from the deep recesses he has retreated into and catch ahold of her, keep her from falling…

...Never mind he might fall himself.

"Listen," she says, and her eyes are dark and penetrating as they lock onto his, "You seem like good, honorable soldiers. I _swear_ I will do my best to help you arrest Khan, but-"

But Athos sees a flash of something in his periphery and it tears his attention away from her. He pushes her roughly behind him and surges towards the campfire circle, drawing his rapier even as he roars a call of warning and awakening to his sleeping comrades- "AT ARMS!"

And then they are overrun.

Athos launches himself forward, and the ground burns and scrapes as he skids to a painful stop on his knees; his sword slashes upwards, blocking a foreign blade just above D'Artagnan's head.

The Gascon in question catches Athos's eyes in brief acknowledgment and thanks before he rolls to the side, out from under the crossed blades, grabs his own sword-belt from the end of his bedding, and jumps to his feet and straight into the fray, immediately engaging two of the four men Porthos is currently fighting off.

Athos disengages the block, and then swiftly attacks, lunging hard, plunging his sword into the expanding chest of his his opponent's ill-timed recovery breath.

"Athos, duck!"

He defers blindly to Ara's warning cry, only belatedly wondering if that's a good idea… A dagger soars right over his head and embeds itself in the watch tree behind him, answering his question for him. He banishes his doubt, meeting an oncoming attacker with a flying fist while simultaneously pulling his sword from the chest of his fallen opponent, ignoring the squelch it makes as he withdraws it.

He pivots and parries, backing up to accommodate a second attacker. He tucks his left hand in a fist behind his back, switches to the offensive, and fluidly dispatches one.

He advances, parries, feints left; his opponent takes the bait, and Athos finishes him cleanly.

He finally has a chance to look up and take in the rest of the fight. It's still dark, but he can just make out the shapes of his friends, all locked in battle.

He's about to dive in and take a man off Porthos's hands, when the one farthest away- the leader, Athos supposes- spots Ara and gestures wildly- "It's her! Get her! _Get_ _her_ , you idiots!"

Athos falls back to defend her, holding his sword aloft warily as he eyes the four men who have approached him at their leader's command.

And then as one they attack, and Athos has his work cut out for him, strictly on the defensive, now, as he keeps himself and his blade between the men and Ara.

He considers telling her to run, but it's dark and he's fairly confident in their ability to win this fight.

He hears her harsh breathing behind him, and then the leader, frustrated, yells - "GET HER! GET THE QUEEN!"

The reaction is instantaneous. Athos misses a beat in surprise and almost pays for it with a chunk of his flesh, but he sidesteps and falls back, regaining his rhythm.

D'Artagnan dispatches his attacker and immediately comes to Athos's assistance, throwing him a confused look, and Porthos grunts to register his surprise, fiercely dueling two men at once.

But Aramis, _damn it_ , Aramis nearly drops his sword as he whirls, eyes searching the clearing for his beloved queen, heedless to the upraised blade of his opponent.

Athos growls a warning, but it isn't necessary.

There's a whoosh of air from behind him, then a solid thunk, and a girl's startled exhalation.

Aramis whirls, wide-eyed, just in time to see his assailant's body collapse, a dagger embedded in his chest.

Shock...and then a familiar sense of dread swoops through Athos. It's barely a flicker, but in his mind's eye, he sees _her_. Green cat's eyes flash coyly at him for a split-second. _Not now_. He shuts it down, and throws himself back into the present. He stabs, withdraws; he's fighting with two blades, now, one... _borrowed_ from a fallen assailant... _thrust, hit, parry; thrust_ \- he's compartmentalizing; only his engagement in the battle is keeping his whirling mind at bay.

D'Artagnan turns, letting Athos cover him for a moment as he meets Ara's eyes with a bewildered- "Good shot."

Athos parries.

Aramis raises his eyebrows and lifts his hat a bit in recognition, before rushing to aid Porthos.

D'Artagnan turns back, intercepting a blow on Athos's behalf, and between the two of them they plow through the remaining men with ease, and then Athos casts his second blade aside and whips the tip of his own blade up to rest under the chin of the leader, right above his bobbing adam's apple.

"Why did you attack us?"

But his opponent is, apparently, not to be subdued so simply, and he ducks, swinging his sword up to engage with a snarl.

D'Artagnan takes care of that, easily swiping away the strike and stepping forward, deceptively casual. "You don't want to test him," he walks forward, cocking his head to indicate Athos, behind him. "Tell us."

The man slashes, but D'Artagnan bats it away again like child's play, and Athos can't help but feel pride surge up in his throat.

The man backs up; D'Artagnan advances. "Why did you attack us? _Tell me_."

The man launches an attack; it's not bad, but D'Artagnan is better, and he blocks it blow for blow, and then, with a quick thrust and roll of his wrist, D'Artagnan has disarmed him.

He takes a step forward, pointing his sword at the man's throat. The man turns to run, but is met with the point of Aramis's sword. The Spaniard raises an eyebrow and nods in a " _go on"_ gesture.

Porthos closes in from the right, and Athos advances to take the spot at D'Artagnan's left. The man looks at them from the circle of their brandished swords, a squinty defiance in his eyes.

"Start talking," Athos orders dryly.

"I'm not saying anything," the man declares.

"We have ways of persuading you," Porthos says conversationally, an uncharacteristically menacing look on his face.

The man gives a harsh chuckle. "You think anything you lot do to me could come close to what my employer would do to me if I squealed?"

Athos feels Ara fall in behind him, and he's about to tell her to go see to the horses or something as he has a feeling this might get dirty, when the man's eyes fix on her, and they go round with surprise.

It's almost daybreak and the diffused light of the sky makes it easier to make out faces, and besides, now they're all in close proximity with each other. Maybe that's why the man looks at Ara and whispers in horror, "You're not the Queen," before promptly wrapping his hands around D'Artagnan's blade and jerking it towards him, straight into his heart.

The man slumps forward on D'Artagnan's blade, skewered.

They all stare in shock for a moment, and then D'Artagnan pulls his sword out.

The body crumples.

" _Damn it_!" D'artagnan roars, casting aside his blade and kicking disgustedly at the man's boots.

Athos can't help but agree with the sentiment.

There's a collective moment as he, Porthos, and Aramis regard each other and sheathe their swords. They share a loaded glance. Was it all simply a case of mistaken identity or is there more to the story?

They break gazes eventually, and Athos feels himself grow rigid as he remembers the perfect dagger thrown in semi-darkness. That couldn't have just been luck. He knows this; this is the Anne effect, the _Milady_ effect… all the warning signs, the coincidences, the plot holes that he was too blind to see before… only he won't fall for it a second time. He retreats into himself, throwing up his mask.

His voice is cold and dry as he addresses the air, pivoting slowly- "So where did you learn how to handle a dagger?"

But as he turns, he registers the sound of ragged, shallow breathing, and then he sees her, a huddled mess on the ground, shaking, and the cold fury in his mind loses its edge.

Athos follows her line of sight and sees the corpse with the dagger buried to the hilt in its chest. He looks back at her, trembling, sobbing, and he doesn't know what to think.

And then Aramis is pushing past him to get to her side. He gathers her into his arms, rubbing soothing circles in her back as she hyperventilates.

"Was he the first, Ara?" Aramis asks quietly. "Was he the first man you killed?"

And then it's a violent inhalation, and she scrambles out of his arms to get on her hands and knees on the grass, and she's dry heaving: awful, shuddering heaves that wrack her whole body. "Oh God," she cries, "Oh God, I killed him. Oh God, I killed him," she repeats. "I killed him."

Aramis crawls over to her, and then grabs her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him.

"He's dead," she tells him hysterically. "Aramis, he's dead. _I killed him_."

"I know," he says lowly. "Look at me, Ara. I know. It was either him or me, Ara. You saved my life. _Thank you_ , Ara."

She stares at Aramis, and Athos recognizes the wild look in her eyes as she attempts to get her breathing back under control, and something twists in his chest.

Soon her breathing is ragged, but even, and Aramis takes her by the hand and leads her in prayer over the dead body.

Athos tears his eyes away from the scene, and looks up, meeting Porthos's gaze. The big man shakes his head, then crosses himself with an enormous hand. "Poor kid."

D'Artagnan murmurs in agreement, picks up his sword, re-sheathes it, and then looks to Athos and Porthos. "Well, I think that's about all we're getting out of the night. What do you say after we're done here," he jerks his head in the direction of Aramis and Ara, "we start riding?"

Athos nods his assent, as does Porthos, but as they split to go ready the horses, Athos looks back at the two figures huddled on the ground.

There it is again, that twisted feeling in his chest. He stands back and allows himself to feel it this time...

It's a pang of... _guilt_...and also something else...

He pauses for a moment, allows himself to examine every fibrous thread of this twinge, then turns away, irritated with himself, and also half-wishing he was the one giving her comfort. As he turns, he accidentally catches her eye.

Stormy blue eyes meet watery brown.

He completes his turn, but as he walks towards his horse, he feels her gaze on his back.


End file.
